


Tatooine Fever

by calmersky



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Barely Any Romance, F/M, Kitchen Sex, No Fluff, No Plot/Plotless, Padawan Braids, Padawan Obi-Wan, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sarcasm, Shameless Smut, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 14:18:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7937857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calmersky/pseuds/calmersky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ice-queen Sabé has had quite enough of Qui-Gon's arrogant apprentice, thank you very much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tatooine Fever

**Author's Note:**

> As you may remember Keira Knightly played the queen's decoy Sabé in The Phantom Menace. My Sabé here is older (I guess a couple of years younger than Obi-Wan) for obvious reasons, and her character is inspired by some of Keira's other roles, mainly those where she's got a brittle upper-class English accent and is super posh. There's a bit of Leia Organa in her too.
> 
> This is an edited version of a story which originally appeared on my fanfiction.net account

The ship is silent. In her cabin the atmosphere is oppressive and Sabé cannot sleep. For the third night in a row she shifts uncomfortably in her bed, willing her mind to let her rest. It does not obey; fears, frustrations and snatches of conversations echo there instead. She worries for Padmé's safety out on this strange desert planet. She fears for her people on Naboo. She hates being stuck, helpless and isolated on this crippled ship, playing the role of Queen while the arrogant young Jedi politely but resolutely ignores her decisions.

The real Queen would be able to deal with Kenobi diplomatically, Sabé thinks. Padmé would likely be able to charm him into doing exactly what she wanted. Sabé is too stubborn to even try. Today, when he ordered her not to reply to the distress message from Naboo, it had taken a tremendous effort not to yell at him, and she had drawn blood from her lip when biting back a sarcastic reply.

Sabé twists on the bed again and kicks off the sheets irritably. She may be tired of protocol and tense but reserved conversations, of heavy makeup and stiff clothes, but above all she hates this wretched, alien heat. Hours after the outside temperature has dropped below freezing, the ship is still cooling down and inside her room it is humid and unbearably hot.

Making a decision, she swings her legs out of the bed and stands. She wraps a thin scarlet robe over her silk nightgown then opens the door of her chamber and sets off down the corridor in search of fresh air. The durasteel is pleasantly cool beneath her bare feet and she relishes the tiniest shift of air against her overheated skin.

She walks slowly in the half-light, enjoying the small freedom of being herself: no regal mask, no intricately-woven hairpiece, no heavy clothes. In fact she is wearing very little at all and there is a small thrill in knowing anyone could see her out here, like this, at least if it wasn't the middle of the night and they weren't all fast asleep. She heads towards the galley, deciding a glass of iced shuura juice might cool her down enough to sleep.

But when she turns from closing the chiller cabinet door, pressing the cold bottle to her cheek, she jumps, startled. There he is, leaning on the wall at the far side of the counter, arms folded across his bare chest, long braid swaying slightly, dark eyes fixed on her.

The night is silent around her and she says nothing. Neither does he.

Ignoring him, she opens the bottle and takes a swig, knowing the cold drops of condensation are dripping onto her covered chest and darkening her robe. He walks, silently, but with that infuriatingly confident half-swagger, around and into the kitchen area, brushing past her to open the door of the chiller.

She notices the midnight-blue sleep pants slung low on his hips. The tanned hue of his skin. The curve of his buttocks. He turns back to face her, elegant fingers clasped around a bottle the same as hers. He looks at her intently, but still he does not speak.

Sabé holds the Jedi's gaze defiantly. She can feel the heat from his body. She notices a sheen of perspiration on his upper lip. A small moan pierces the humid silence and a fraction of a second later she realises it must have involuntarily slipped from her own lips.

He half-smiles in acknowledgement, and suddenly, to her surprise, the arrogance disappears from his expression. Perhaps the tiny victory granted by her body's betrayal has softened him. "You need not fear for your people," he says quietly. "My Master had found a way to obtain the replacement hyperdrive. I spoke to him this evening. He will not fail you."

Reflecting the small row of spotlights above their heads, his eyes are blue-grey, and she finds sympathy and sincerity in his expression. It unnerves her.

"Your Master has not yet provided any evidence to convince me of that," she snaps.

The arrogance returns. "Then perhaps you would be so gracious as to trust the judgment of those more experienced in such matters. Unless you believe Naboo no longer requires the aid of the Jedi. Or the Senate?"

She mirrors his sarcastic smile. "If the Senate's desire to preserve its taxation policies was not greater than its own conscience we would not be in this position."

"The Senate serves the people!"

"You believe so? I wasn't aware that naivety was a Jedi characteristic."

Her eyes flick to his braid. "Or perhaps that is the reason you are still merely an apprentice?"

His cheeks flush a little and he pauses, jaw clenching as he studies her face, then lets his eyes flick down her body and back up again. "And I wasn't aware petulance was a royal characteristic, Your Highness. Or is it that just you?"

Prickles of irritation run along the back of her neck. She tries to ignore the more pleasant sensations still lingering in the rest of her body from the single sweep of his eyes, but the knowledge that he can have that effect on her just magnifies the irritation until it threatens to combust.

"The Q.. Queen of Naboo…" she flusters, breaking contact with the gaze that now seems capable of penetrating her skin. Her ridiculously under-dressed skin. "The monarchy of Naboo is democratically elected, such a notion is meaningless."

His fingers, warm on her cheek turn her face until her eyes meet his. "I can understand your anxiety. Your loyalty. Your fear. But you must trust us to help you. Anger will not help this situation to be resolved."

She pushes away his hand, alarmed as her own fingers tremble at the contact. "Do not presume to advise me, Jedi."

He takes a step closer. She suddenly finds herself trapped between the cold metal of the chiller and the heat of his body, his knee brushing her leg as he leans forward.

"Perhaps the true Queen would advise you similarly."

It does not come as a great surprise that he knows her secret. But is this is why he thinks her incompetent? A stand-in, not fit for consultation or even discussion?

She wrestles for a moment with her composure, but manages somehow to maintain it, tilting her chin defiantly, a movement that locates her lips only millimetres from his. "Queen Amidala trusts me to act in her place, and I am well qualified to do so."

He steps closer and the fingers of her left hand, still wrapped around the bottle of juice, suddenly weaken until the glass begins to slip though her fingers.

"I do not doubt it," he replies, breath drifting against her lips, and he bends to neatly catch the bottle as it drops. For a moment she fully believes he will kiss her. Try to kiss her. She won't let him. She will push him away.

But there is no need. In a smooth motion that brings relief and a pang of disappointment he turns and steps back, placing both bottles on the counter.

"And yet you ignore me." She addresses his back, impatiently, confused.

His bare back. His smooth, bare back, the pattern of his muscles accentuated by the lighting…"Y-you dismiss my opinion. You disregard my experience." There. An invitation to apologise.

"Only in the interest of the mission." He turns to glance back at her, propping himself against the counter, casually taking a swig of his drink.

The man is unbelievable! Sabé's head is spinning, her feet are cold but the rest of her is still too damn hot, she can't remember having ever met someone so confoundingly unbearable yet attractive—yes, there, she's admitted it— at the same time.

"I... I've never... Of all the arrogant, pig-headed…" she stammers, not sure whether she wants to wash that smirk off his face with a glass of iced water or kiss him until he can't breathe. And he wants her. Desires her.

Doesn't he? And why does she care whether he does or does not?

But wait… a smirk?

She raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms. "You're teasing me."

He composes his expression into innocence. "I wouldn't dare."

There is something new about that expression, she thinks, something subtle around his eyes, something she hasn't noticed before. What is it? Charm? Humour? Distracted, she finds her irritation dissolving, her composure slipping once again...

"I don't like being teased," she says, with a frown, walking confidently towards him, stopping a footstep away.

"Really?" he says, a whisper, leaning towards her until his lips brush her ear. "Are you quite sure?"

Sabé places a hand on his bare chest, finding his flesh a shade cooler than her own, then pushes him backwards, looking up, noticing his nervous swallow as he places his empty bottle drink back on the counter. She reaches up on tiptoes, allowing her silkily-clad body to press against him lightly as she murmurs against his lips. "Yes. Quite sure." She pauses. Takes a breath. "Now. Could you please pass me my drink?"

He's far too close to successfully cover his confusion. "Wha... I… I mean… of course," he says, fumbling for the bottle.

She takes, it, smiling up at him, then drinks lazily. The juice is lukewarm and overly sweet, but she barely notices, senses overloaded with danger, anticipation, and, she finally concedes, desire.

This is the moment when she should place the bottle on the counter and wish him a respectable goodnight. Now. The next second. It should be simple. _Goodnight, Kenobi. Goodnight Obi-Wan._ Even just _Goodnight_ would do…

That was the moment. It has passed.

Silence. She has said nothing.

And so the decision is made. She drinks again, letting the last of the sticky liquid spill over her lips, holding his gaze as the trickle runs down her chin and drip onto her chest. His eyes follow it, then move back to meet hers.

She has only managed to half-raise an eyebrow when she finds her back pressed hard against the counter. On the exhale of a gasp her lips are enveloped by his kiss, fierce yet soft, and her last shreds of self control are torn away by the slide of both of his hands into her hair, drawing her closer, holding her perfectly, not demanding her response but simply removing the possibility of doing anything else but kiss him back.

A small, muffled part of her is annoyed that he seems to be rather good at this. _Very good…_

And she is swept away, caught in a delirium of sensation, arching against him, hard body against her, his moan in her mouth, tongues mingling, unrestrained. Then his hands are sliding, calloused skin rough against her neck, symmetrically, moving down, over her silk-clad shoulders, slowly down her bare arms, finding her hands still hanging numbly by her sides. He lifts them up and back and then pins them down on the counter, firmly, as if she is a wild animal. She squirms against him but it's with pleasure rather than a desire to escape.

Long moments later he breaks the kiss. His breathing is ragged, the slight curve of his lips adding humour to the arrogant glint in his eyes. A sheen of perspiration on his forehead accentuates the expression, and the overall effect is of something, or someone, quite deliciously wicked. At least for a Jedi.

He notices her amused look and dips his mouth suddenly to her chest, tracing the sticky trail of juice, tongue swirling against the pulse on her neck, stubble scratching, teeth nipping lightly.

"Obi-Wan," she moans softly, using his name aloud for the first time, and he lifts his head, resting his cheek against hers. She feels his desire, in his breath, his heat, his hardness, against her.

"Milday," he says, and she feels him smile. "My quarters are closest," he brushes lips against her cheek, tracing a line to her earlobe. "If I may be so presumptuous."

She closes her eyes, drawing in a long, unsteady breath. "You may not."

In an instant his body slackens and her hands are released. But she catches him before he has chance to step away, looking up at him, smiling, a challenge in her eyes.

His own eyes widen and he glances around the room. "Here?"

"Yes. Right here." She moves his hands to her hips, shifting her weight until he realises what she wants and then he smiles slyly, lifting her up and back onto the counter.

She tries to pull him into a kiss but he holds back. "You are young..."

"Old enough, Kenobi," she says, her hand sliding down his chest, slick with sweat.

"We... I…nnghhhhh.." his protest turns to a moan, his mouth against her neck, as her fingers slide below the waistband of his pants, grasping his erection, finding the drop of liquid and swirling her thumb with practiced skill.

"Shhh…" she says softly, continuing the motion, his hips beginning to rock. "Don't worry, I'm not going to fall in love with you."

The words leave a strange bittersweet feeling in her chest, and she half-hopes he didn't hear them.

Perhaps he didn't. His face is still buried in the side of her neck, the fingers of his hand splayed across her cheek at the opposite side. She leans forward against him, moving her hand until she can push his pants off over his hips, and as he steps out of them she shrugs off her robe, letting it slide off the counter to a puddle of scarlet silk on the floor.

The rough palms of his hands drift over her arms and their mouths meet again in a slow kiss. His fingers trace the low neckline of her nightgown, then move to caress her breasts, nipples rapidly hardening, although his touch is now hesitant.

Impatiently, she breaks away from this kiss. "You have done this before, haven't you?" she asks, her hands sliding over his bare ass, nails raking gently, teasing first to match her words, then harder, grasping, urging him closer.

He fixes her with a stare then grins impudently, placing his hands on her bare knees, pushing her legs a little too roughly apart. He strokes upwards slowly, taking the material of the nightgown with them. He pauses for her to shift her weight, then pulls the fabric up and over her head. Then, moving with graceful speed, he slides his hands under her buttocks, pulling her towards him, to the edge of the counter. Her eyes rake his naked body, up and then down.

His hand comes up, tilting her chin towards him, and his voice is a rough, desire-laden whisper, "Wait. I need to see your face. Your eyes."

Her response is simply to whimper with need, in this moment forgetting ego and pride, barely even registering anything but the fever of her own desire. And him.

"Do you want this?" He whispers, one thumb sweeping across the fullness of her mouth. The other caresses the soft skin of her thigh, stopping just short of the slickness between her legs.

She nods, closing her eyes, trying to move closer to his touch, shivering in anticipation. Carefully, he wraps her leg high around his hip and immediately slides his hard length fully into her, mouth falling down against her neck, his low moan rumbling against her skin. Her cry is higher, loud and unrestrained.

It feels incredibly good and yet... infuriatingly still. The urge to move quickly becomes overwhelming. She wraps her legs around him, fingers sliding into his short hair, trying to buck against him. He holds her fast, grabbing her arms and pinning her hands once again.

"Move, damn you," she hisses, biting his ear.

His chuckle turns to a moan as he begins to circle then thrust against her, deliberately slowly, and then faster, his fingers abandoning hers to dig into the flesh of her hips, helping her to move in time with him. Open mouthed, their kiss is a battle, his tongue stroking the roof of her mouth as their joined hips move together relentlessly.

Eventually, she breaks the kiss to breathe, and she lets her head fall back, propping an arm behind her, adjusting the angle of her hips so he hits that perfect place inside her, crying out as the burst of pleasure sends sparks through her vision.

And there he is, looking down at her through half-hooded eyes, mouth hanging open, long braid swaying in time with his thrusts, sex personified.

Reaching forward with a shaking hand, his thumb traces the swell of her breast though the flimsy, damp fabric of her nightgown, then he rolls her nipple, pinching it gently, making her gasp.

She senses the edge approaching rapidly and moans loudly, rocking against him harder and faster. He leans forward just as she reaches it, muffling her scream with his mouth, arms wrapping around her body, holding her as the waves crash and engulf her. He drives his orgasm into her with a shout shortly afterwards, his back a shudder of sweat-slickened muscles under her fingertips.

They stay like that, wrapped in each other, damp and sticky, heartbeats thumping together, harsh breaths gradually steadying. Her face is pressed against his neck, and as coherent thought returns she finds herself in the strange situation of being in the most intimate embrace possible, but too shy to look the other person in the eyes.

There is no easy escape from this situation. No possibility of running away. She starts to feel very drained and a little awkward. How did that happen? What the hell was she thinking? She has absolutely no idea how he is going to react. And here he is, still wrapped around her, still inside her body.

Biting her lip she shifts her legs and thankfully he takes the cue and slips out of her. But instead of pulling away she presses her face closer into his neck, just taking another second to pray that some miracle will transport her back to her room. Or that she could stay like this forever. Breathing the scent of his skin. Hiding from everything.

But far too soon his arms loosen. His hand strokes her hair. "Sabé." She pretends not to hear him. "Sabé. Are you alright? You're trembling."

This is it. She has to face him. She lifts her head up, uncertain, and finally meets his eyes.

He smiles at her, but it is a shy, boyish smile. He leans in to place a gentle kiss on her lips.

She's so surprised she doesn't kiss him back.

Obi-Wan pulls away and tilts his head to one side, regarding her in concern, and she finds she has no choice but to smile at him. "I'm very well, thank you," she says. "How are you?"

It sounds ridiculous, and a beat later, she starts to laugh. His mouth twitches and then he's laughing too, and with that simple, shared experience her confidence flows steadily back.

He steps away and helps her down from the counter, his hand remaining clasped with hers. She still feels vulnerable, and a little sore now, and tired and too hot and actually quite uncomfortable.

She looks down at their joined hands, then back up at him. "I should… I mean it's late."

He nods, resolutely not letting go of her hand. "My quarters?"

"Oh. I don't know…" She smiles, squashing down a secret joy she has no right to feel. "Mine are probably more comfortable."

He rolls his eyes. "I have a water shower."

"What? I thought we only had sonics onboard! How did you manage that?"

He shrugs, beginning to pull her in the direction of the corridor.

She pulls back. "Wait, our clothes."

He extends a hand and the pile of fabric flies neatly into his grasp. "Come on."

Reluctantly, she allows herself to be tugged along. "Isn't that a somewhat frivolous use of the Force, Padawan?"

"Don't call me Padawan," he growls, pushing her through the doorway.

"Sorry. I meant Kenobi. Padawan Kenobi."

"Actually I think I preferred you out of breath and incapable of speech."

The door of his room slides shut behind them and he heads away from her across the room to what must be the 'fresher. She ignores his previous comment, focusing on the flex of his muscles instead. "Hmm… you're not quite as obnoxious when you're naked."

He flashes a grin over his shoulder then disappears from view. She hears running water. It sounds divine, and reminds her of waterfalls and coolness and tranquillity…

His head appears around the door. "Well? Are you coming in or not?"

As she steps past him and into the shower she hums in delight. The water is every bit as delightful as she imagines. Rinsing herself quickly she turns, water running down her face, and he's there, grinning down at her. She steps back, pulling him forward into the stream, then leans back against the wall, lazily content to watch the show.

She's starting to shiver when he finally shuts off the water. He steps forward, flicking droplets of water from his face before quickly pressing his warm body to hers, lowering his mouth to kiss her thoroughly.

But she's tired, and although her desire begins to build again her legs are numb. Wasteful as it is, she would relish sleep now more than anything else. Gently, she pulls away.

"Bed?" he says, and never has the word sounded more inviting.

A few minutes later, slipping between cool sheets, she turns to smile at him lying next to her, his head propped on his hand. She raises her hand to run lightly along his braid and he catches it, pressing her fingers to his lips and kissing them each in turn. He looks at her then, with a sort of longing, and the intensity of that look does something strange to her stomach and sends shivers right down to her toes.

"Don't," she says quietly, snatching away her hand.

He nods and looks down, fiddling with the edge of the sheet. There is a long pause before he speaks again. "I never meant to ignore you, or to undermine you, you know, over the past few days. I'm sorry if I offended you."

"Hey. It's okay. I think I understand."

"You do?"

"Well maybe not completely. But I suppose I might have been too disparaging of your capabilities. The Jedi, at least, value peace as much we Nabooians do. I can accept that. And Master Jinn is a distinguished Jedi. His reputation precedes him."

Obi-Wan smiles, bending to kiss her forehead then extinguishing the light with a flick of his hand, and settling down beside her.

The room is almost completely dark. His bed is soft. Sleep beckons her, easily, fluidly. It's only a few seconds before she's drifting…

A thought interrupts the flow. It niggles. Not letting her rest. She has to ask him.

"You didn't tell me."

"Hmm?"

"Master Jinn's plan. To obtain the replacement hyperdrive. You said he has

found a way?"

"Oh… yes. That."

"Well?"

He sighs. "I think it's better that you don't know."

"Why?"

"Please," he says sleepily. "Just trust me on this. We'll find out by mid-morning if he's been successful."

" _If?_ I don't like the sound of that. If he has taken risks-" but her protest is muffled by something soft. Something warm.

"What are you doing?"

"Kissing you to sleep."

"I-mmmm…"

"Would you like me to stop?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Dear gods yes."

"You're very beautiful when you're angry."

"Less talking, more kissing, Kenobi."

"Mmmm. Better?"

"Mmmm."

Her arms wraps around his neck, smiling into the darkness as he kisses her, his weight reassuringly heavy on top of her, soft lips, familiar now, moving lazily. She will let him have the benefit of the doubt.

At least until the morning.

 

 


End file.
